


does it bother anyone else that someone else has your name?

by suzukiblu



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Drama & Romance, Ensemble Cast, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Multiple Pairings, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-12 12:43:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19132255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suzukiblu/pseuds/suzukiblu
Summary: Drabble series about various soulmates in the Star Wars universe.---“Fuck,” Han says someplace between meeting Luke Skywalker and Leia Organa and seeing them kiss and being told what they actually are to each other, for the first time understanding that theLeia Skywalkerscrawled across his chest is there to mark his broken heart.





	does it bother anyone else that someone else has your name?

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is just a whole bunch of “your soulmate’s name is somewhere on your skin” drabbles about maybe-soulmates in Star Wars, which are all unconnected and do not all follow the same rules. Or maybe some of them are and do; who knows!! That is all up to your interpretation, dear reader. Some pairings repeat or intersect, some do not. 
> 
> Also, you’re welcome or I’m sorry, whichever you prefer. >__>

“Fuck,” Han says someplace between meeting Luke Skywalker and Leia Organa and seeing them kiss and being told what they actually are to each other, for the first time understanding that the _Leia Skywalker_ scrawled across his chest is there to mark his broken heart. 

Which—he doesn’t know why it matters _now_. He’d given up on her a long time ago. 

Or he’d figured out she was going to give up on him, he means. 

But now he’s met her, and now he knows why his mark’s not the same name he met her under, knows that Leia and Luke are _meant_ for each other and she’ll take _his_ name and Han will take—nothing of her, _have_ nothing of her—and now—and now—

It matters, now. 

.

.

.

“Yeah, ‘Finn’, I like that!” FN-2187 declares with a grin, and Poe doesn’t even notice the dull burn of his soulmark changing on his back in all the chaos and aches and pains of escape; doesn’t even think to look later. 

He really should, for the way hearing the other say _“I like that!”_ just made him feel. 

.

.

.

“Ma’am, I think—it says _Skywalker_ ,” Jessika whispers in urgent secrecy, her eyes wide and shining, and the general’s eyes widen in return. 

.

.

.

No one’s arm says _Kylo Ren_.

Someone’s arm might’ve still said _Ben Solo_ , until very recently. 

.

.

.

“I think I know your name,” Rey tells Finn, touching her stomach. 

“I think I know yours too,” he says, his fingers curling in on themselves. 

.

.

.

Poe is born with his soulmark, which means his soulmate is older than him but provides literally no other information. Which is unfortunate, kind of, because his soulmark is an unusual one. The handwriting is machine-perfect, as if the owner has never written their own name in their life and only typed it, and there is no family name attached. 

There _is_ a rank, though. Poe’s never seen another soulmark with a rank. And just what kind of name _is_ “Phasma”, anyway, he wonders for years and years and years, right up until he sees that shining chrome armor across a battlefield. 

He knows her before he even knows. 

He wonders if her soulmark says “Commander” or not, but knows it isn’t ever going to matter. 

.

.

.

“No,” Lando replies slowly, giving Leia an odd look. “It definitely says Leia _Organa_. Should it not?” 

“I—” Leia cuts herself off; breathes out harshly. “No. No, that’s what it should say.” 

She’d just thought—maybe it wouldn’t, she’d thought. 

Lando lays a hand on the table between them, palm turned upwards to be accepted or ignored and never even breaking eye contact to acknowledge his own gesture. She understands, effortlessly, why it’s him written around her ankle. 

More importantly, she understands why it would be Leia Organa around his own. 

.

.

.

“They gave the poor bastard a _serial_ number, which—just, no,” Poe tells the pilots hanging on his every word, shaking his head grimly at the memory. _Force_ , he wishes he could’ve done more for Finn; wishes he could’ve saved him back. “It was FN-something, so I just called him Finn. He said he liked it, at least, so—” 

“ _Just_ Finn?” Jess interrupts, her attention suddenly sharpening, and Poe gives her a puzzled look. 

“Yeah, just—” he starts, but she interrupts again immediately. 

“He lived,” she says. 

“How do you—” Poe starts again, but this time he interrupts himself; cuts himself off mid-sentence and stares at her. Oh. _Oh,_ he thinks, and isn’t the only one to be staring. Jess drags the front of her flight suit open anyway and pulls up her undershirt, revealing the neatly-printed name on her ribs and making the point that everyone in the circle has already realized. 

“Because I haven’t met him yet,” she says. 

.

.

.

The paperwork left abandoned in the middle of the hangar is scattered and forgotten and Rey never learned to read or write very well, but she would recognize that cramped, crooked handwriting anywhere. 

She would recognize that _signature_ anywhere. 

“Whose X-Wing is this?” she asks, glancing up at the T-70 the paperwork’s been left next to. It’s empty. Someone’s been taking the engine apart for maintenance, but whoever it is isn’t here now. They’ll be back soon, though, she thinks—no one can afford to leave their ship in this condition in the Resistance. 

“Blue Three,” Poe replies distractedly, barely looking up from his own engine. “Testor. She had to go pick up a new fuel line from Requisitions. Why?” 

“Just wondering,” Rey says, looking down at that signature again. 

There’s a pen, next to it. 

.

.

.

“Hey, your name—” Han blurts, looking startled, and Leia reflexively bristles. 

“Don’t _look_!” she snaps, dragging her sleeve down quickly, but Han still stares at her covered arm. As if “Lando Calrissian” is any business of _his_ , she thinks angrily. 

.

.

.

“Can’t I see it?” Luke asks quietly. 

“You’re a _kid_ ,” Han mutters. Luke’s eyes flick unerringly to his soulmark anyway, even with his clothes in the way. And Han knows _damn_ well the kid’s never seen it before and should have no idea where it is, but—Jedi, probably, the damn _Force_ , probably. 

“I’m really not,” Luke murmurs back, and puts a hand just next to Han’s marked hip on the seat. 

“You really, _really_ are,” Han says. 

.

.

.

In the gaudy, skimpy outfit that Jabba forces her into Han’s name is bared for everyone but him to see, and Leia will never forgive that. 

.

.

.

Shmi has no name on her skin and never has, not for a day of her life; not for a moment. Cliegg marries her anyway, his first faded mark long gone from the world; her own name scrawled new and bright across his opposite arm. 

Shmi stays unmarked. Shmi will always be unmarked. 

Shmi’s first soulmate is not dead, after all; just something luminous and unnamed. 

.

.

.

Her words burn, and _Darth Vader_ , says Padmé’s arm in the exact same jerky, impatient script that once said _Anakin Skywalker_ , and it’s that, that is the thing that she cannot live with. Not for anything. Not for anyone. 

Not ever. 

.

.

.

_Padmé Naberrie_ is written right across his face from the first day, cheek to cheek for the whole galaxy and Jedi Order and Senate and Queen Amidala all to see, but it doesn’t change a thing. 

.

.

.

_Padmé,_ all their breastbones say, and their names stack all the way up her throat— _Sabé, Rabé, Eirtaé, Yané, Saché, Dormé, Moteé, CORDÉ_ — 

.

.

.

Finn wonders what a “poedameron” is, wonders why the Order tattooed it into his skin, but doesn’t ask. It’s a classification, he assumes eventually, though not one he’s ever heard of. He can only assume someone will tell him if it ever matters. 

And someone does, although the person who tells him is the last person he ever thought would. 

.

.

.

Anakin Skywalker has two soulmarks, one in pitch-black and extravagantly formed calligraphy under his collarbone and one small and soft and faded, a faint line of careful print tucked in just high enough below the crook of his elbow that Dooku only just hadn’t managed to cut it off him; the scar literally brushes the edge of it, and the metal edge of his prosthetic has since hidden it entirely. It doesn’t make much difference, really—no one’s ever seen it without him pointing it out to them anyway. His mother had been so startled when he had, he remembers, and none of the med droids or doctors who’ve worked on him over the years have ever even glanced at it, even when it was directly under their hands. 

That’s how he really knows no one sees it. Even a Jedi-programmed med droid would never touch someone’s soulmark. 

When he’d shown Padmé, something in her had relaxed, strangely. He’s never quite figured out why. It doesn’t make sense; she told him she doesn’t have that name herself. Shouldn’t she be jealous? Shouldn’t it bother her? 

Maybe it’s just him who would be jealous or bothered, though. Maybe it’s just him who’s so afraid and full of doubt. Anakin has seen his own name on Padmé’s stomach a thousand times, bold and bright and cradled lovingly in the curve of her hips, but he is still afraid. 

He has never seen whose name Obi-Wan wears, or wore. Qui-Gon’s or Satine Kryze’s, he assumes _(or someone unknown, maybe, some secret, some stranger, some name that Obi-Wan has never spoken and would never show to anyone, never admit to carrying, never—)_. He’s always wanted to know, and he’s never known if that wanting comes from wanting Obi-Wan’s trust or wanting—or wanting— 

Anakin has always wanted too much. He’s never been a proper Jedi. Carrying a name that is so clearly ashamed to be on his skin is no different. 

Wanting to know if his own name is on that person’s skin in return is no different. 

.

.

.

“It’s you,” Lando says, and shows him his own name tucked into the unprotected crease of his palm. Luke looks at the stump of his wrist, at the place where he has no name to show in turn, and can’t help seeing a message. Or a warning. 

The Force works in mysterious ways, but not especially subtle ones. 

“Yes,” he replies lowly, turning away. “I suppose it would’ve been.”

.

.

.

“He betrayed and murdered your father,” Obi-Wan tells Luke quietly, and it is not a lie--not from a certain point of view. It does not feel like a lie in either his mouth or the Force. 

There was a name on his shoulder, once. It was a name he did not speak of, and a name he remains certain was unreciprocated, but it was there all the same. 

A name right where a lightsaber will tear through him, one day. 

.

.

.

“A Jedi does not abide by their mark,” Obi-Wan tells the little handmaiden with his name on her pale, pretty, blaster-calloused hand. “Such attachment is forbidden.” 

“I find that strange,” Cordé says. “Don’t the Jedi also say that a soulmark is a gift from the Force?” 

“No,” he replies stiffly, turning away from the piercing, questioning look on her face, his jaw tight and his braid heavy on his shoulder for the first time in a very, very long time. “We most definitely do not.” 

She is a girl who would die for her queen; he is a man who has sworn to live for a way of life. The difference between those things is very obvious. 

“So you will not stay, and I will not leave,” Cordé murmurs, still watching him with those same piercing eyes, that same question in her face. Or worse, some kind of an answer. “I think that makes us quite attached, myself.” 

He says nothing. He has nothing to give her. As he gave nothing to Satine; as Satine asked for nothing in return. 

Cordé, though, continues to look like the answer. 

.

.

.

The scar splits right through Obi-Wan Kenobi’s name on her skin. Satine wonders, sometimes, if that’s why it didn’t happen. He’s failed her and he’s saved her and she’s sure he’ll do both again, and she’s sure she’ll never see him again. 

She’s always sure, though, when it’s Obi-Wan. 

And yet, somehow, neither of them has ever been sure enough. 

.

.

.

Obi-Wan is a newly-appointed Knight and should’ve told someone about his soulmark. That’s all he can think about. Qui-Gon is dead because he was too afraid to tell him or anyone else about the name that came in on his skin when he was fifteen. Too afraid to give them that proof, that _warning_. 

So whoever “Darth Vader” is, Obi-Wan already knows he is going to kill him. 

.

.

.

Poe’s never heard of an “FN” model droid and neither has anyone else he’s asked, but he figures that just means either they’re from another planet or they’re not in production yet, or maybe they’re a custom job? 

His soulmark is on his collarbone and he’s never gone to the effort to hide it—he’s _proud_ of his soulmate, whoever they are—and some of the kids at school make fun of him for having a droid for a soulmate. Poe doesn’t care, because droids are people _too_ —they’re just different people. So kids with other Yavinese names say mean stuff about him and his soulmate and gross, _gross_ things about how he shouldn’t be left alone with the cleaning droids at school, but he still learns Binary backwards and forwards the first chance he gets and as much about droid maintenance and repair and just droids _themselves_ as he possibly can. 

His soulmate’s going to be way more important than a bunch of jerks who can’t even fly, anyway. 

He imagines that FN-2187 will be an astromech, maybe, and that they’ll never have to land ever again if they don’t want to. 

.

.

.

Padmé doesn’t believe in the names, which is why she never tells Anakin about the one hidden under her hair. He doesn’t have one at all, but he loves her anyway. Why would hers matter, if Anakin loves her anyway? If she can love _him_ anyway? What would be the point of the name, then? 

Besides. Obi-Wan Kenobi never looked at her like he’d leave everything behind in her name. 

He’s never looked at her at all, she thinks some days. 

She wonders, sometimes, if there’s a reason for that. 

But she still doesn’t believe in the names. 

.

.

.

Sabé and Rabé’s names are on each other’s cheeks, and must be covered up every morning. The handmaidens’ robes are enough to hide everyone else’s, but not theirs. Neither of them minds, but both of them prefer to do each other’s makeup when possible. The others consider it fair enough. 

They could live their lives as individuals and never cover up those names again, but neither of them wants to. 

They wouldn’t have each others’ names if they would, after all. 

.

.

.

“No,” Rey says. “It’s always said ‘Finn’.” 

“Oh,” Finn says, blinking fast. “That’s. I didn’t think it would have.” 

“Of course it did,” she says, laying a hand over his; squeezing tight. “You were always going to be Finn in the end.” 

.

.

.

None of them know each other’s real names, of course, so Finn doesn’t know Nines was his soulmate until he feels the burn in his soulmark, and watches it fade away. 

He should have recognized the handwriting, he thinks now, looking at his empty hand. 

.

.

.

Rose has the name of a man who tried to run away on her stomach, and doesn’t know what to do about it even when she kisses him. 

.

.

.

Shmi dreams for a long time about what will happen when she meets her soulmate, and it turns out he will do nothing for her, but everything for Anakin. 

She can’t be sorry, knowing that. 

.

.

.

“Shit!” Poe blurts, staring at himself in the mirror, and Finn turns his head and looks at him and—his chest says “Finn”, raw and red and fresh-looking, and Finn blinks. 

“Did it always say that?” he asks, even knowing it can’t have. Poe would never have named him that, if it had. 

“No,” Poe says, blinking rapidly. “No, it used to say—”

“I don’t want to know,” Finn interrupts him, and then steps in close to touch it. Poe lets him, and lifts a hesitant hand in turn. 

“Does yours . . . ?” he starts, and Finn shrugs. 

“It must have,” he says. “But the First Order cut it off before I could read. I don’t even remember what it looked like, now.” 

“Oh,” Poe says, looking stricken. Finn doesn’t see the problem, since the name on Poe’s chest is still here and not scarred at all. That’s all that matters, he thinks—as long as one of them knows, they can both know. 

.

.

.

He says he wants to protect his friend. He says his friend’s name is Rey. 

Rose thinks of the name on her shoulder, and wonders if she’ll survive to meet her. 

Wonders if she should’ve just let Finn go. 

.

.

.

“Oh,” Finn says, swallowing the bite in his mouth. “No, Stormtroopers have names. Mine was on my thigh.” He sounds unaffected, but Poe’s chest tightens in pain at the words all the same and everyone else at the table winces. Of course they do—there’s a new terrible thing about the First Order to learn every day, it seems, but it’s worse when it’s something personal. 

“You know what happened to them?” Snap asks, still wincing even as he asks. 

“Yeah,” Finn says, dipping his head in an easy nod as he takes another bite of his lunch. “Poe shot him.” 

.

.

.

They get each others’ names, but some of them get slightly different names. 

Rey has “Poe Dameron” up one arm and “FN-2187” down the other and hides them both, because no vulnerability is safe to show on Jakku. Finn has “Rey” and “Poe” in the palms of his always-gloved hands, scarred over from countless attempts to remove them. Poe has two full names that their owners don’t even remember on the back of his shoulder blades, though that will change, later—when he names Finn, and when he meets Rey. 

Rey will always have “Poe Dameron”, but “FN-2187” will change when Finn grabs her hand. Finn’s names will never change at all. Sometimes names do, and sometimes they don’t.

But Finn will never see his serial number on Rey’s arm and Finn and Rey will never see their birth names on Poe’s back, because when it comes down to it, none of those names matter.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr!](http://suzukiblu.tumblr.com/)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [suddenly you're a mile away and you have their shoes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22237795) by [nicoleaf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicoleaf/pseuds/nicoleaf)




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